


Oldest of Four

by toli-a (togina)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Bad Parenting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Infant Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6787666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togina/pseuds/toli-a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Smithsonian said that Bucky Barnes was the oldest of four. He wondered who they'd added on - or who they'd forgot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oldest of Four

**Author's Note:**

> There is child death in this, and poor parenting, and depression and mental illness as viewed from a child's perspective.

Bucky’s the oldest of four, the Smithsonian said. They had looked up records, no doubt, or perhaps the 1920 census when Barnes, James Buchanan was almost three, Barnes, Mary was one and Barnes, Patricia was still a squalling, red-faced thing that wouldn’t sleep through the night. Obviously no one had checked the next census, when the household had dropped to Barnes, George and his two children, James and Rebecca.

Or perhaps they had. People understood things differently, in this new century. They went on at length about the value of human life, sounding like the well-dressed women with the perfumed handkerchiefs who would stride through Bucky’s rickety building and tell the mothers bent over their children and their stoves what they were doing wrong. They probably thought Bucky had existed surrounded by womenfolk, escaping to Stevie’s place to get away from all the ribbons and sewing needles.

Well. They weren’t all wrong. Bucky had escaped to Steve’s, but he hadn’t been running from hairbrushes and pin curls. He could have shoved those off the scratched surface of the dresser, pushed them away with a grin like he elbowed Becky away from the mirror when he needed to shave. It was harder, running from ghosts.

The oldest of four. Patty had been four months old when she’d gotten the flu and finally stopped crying through the night. Bucky at four years old, standing beside his father as they lowered Mary’s tiny coffin into the ground, and all he remembered was his mother shaking him away when he grabbed for her hand, sinking to the ground beside a black hole in the earth and cursing God.

Mrs. O'Neill upstairs said God heard everything. Maybe that was why the next two girls didn’t breathe at all – at least, Laurie O'Neill said they hadn’t, even though Bucky’s Ma cradled them in her arms until the women forced her to box them away.

Martha. Elizabeth. The Smithsonian didn’t mention them, two unbaptized girls buried next to their sisters in unmarked graves. The oldest of five, by then – one eight-year-old little boy who had learned to wash his own clothes and cook his father breakfast in the mornings, to fetch the money out of his pockets before Mr. Barnes escaped into a bottle and Bucky escaped to Steve’s. One little boy, and four ghosts.

When Becky was born, she couldn’t have the soft, blue quilt that their Ma had sewn for Martha. She couldn’t sleep in the crib they’d bought especially for Patty, the one that sat in the corner and creaked when the wind blew too hard. Bucky brought Rebecca upstairs to Mrs. O'Neill, and left their mother with the children she loved most.

It was easy to be Becky’s older brother. She needed diapers and clean clothes, and Mrs. Rogers had taught Bucky how to handle both. Steve helped, when he wasn’t worried he’d get Becky sick – he carried her everywhere, made faces at her and drew her pictures, let her stay at home with him when Bucky got a job sweeping Mr. Flaherty’s store. She cried when she was hungry, loved apples and hated bananas, clapped her hands and blew spit bubbles when Steve sang her songs. She was alive.

It was harder, to be a good big brother to the ghosts. He could remember Mary, flashes of dark, curly hair and matching dark eyes, sharper than the blurred image of Patty’s round, bald head and her ceaseless wailing. Martha and Lizzie he had never seen – had slept at Steve’s for a week, both times, curled up on the couch cushions until his Da stormed in and dragged him home.

The oldest of six, though. Becky howled and laughed, where the others wore the silence of the grave, fragile and quiet so that Bucky always worried he’d shatter them like glass if he stepped out of line. He had thrown away a broken cup, once, and their mother had slapped him when she learned it was gone. Mary’s cup. Bucky hadn’t known to keep it – Ma didn’t talk to him or Becky. As far back as Bucky could remember, she’d preferred the children he couldn’t see.

By the time the next census came around, Bucky was almost thirteen, and could pull in extra money doing the wash for half the neighborhood. Steve complained that everything smelled like laundry soap, but always bent down to help, scrubbing until both of their hands were red and raw. Mrs. O'Neill let Becky stay upstairs at night, as long as Bucky could pay for the bed his sister shared with Gracie O'Neill, two little girls giggling and skipping down old tenement stairs. Mrs. Rogers came by in the evenings and braided Becky’s hair, brushed it out with the hairbrush Bucky’s Ma had bought for Mary in 1923. Two years after she’d died.

By the next census, there was no one to slap Bucky for handing over Mary’s brush, or the hairpins she never used. Winifred Barnes was where she’d always wanted to be, by 1930, with her favorite girls. She’d left James and Rebecca motherless, Mrs. O'Neill sobbed at the funeral, and Bucky didn’t disagree.

She had left them motherless, too busy cherishing the chill in their empty rooms to bother with the warmth of living smiles or a frightened four-year-old’s tears. But by 1930, Becky had Mrs. Rogers and Mrs. O'Neill, their Da had his bottle, and Bucky – well, Bucky was oldest.

He tugged the dark, curly hair out of the brush and set it gently on the dresser, next to the pins. Pushed the cradle so it rocked as he swept the floor, and gathered Lizzie’s swaddling clothes up for the wash. Steve frowned, but he folded Martha’s blanket without a word, and tried to find the hair ribbons Becky wanted to wear to school the next day.

It wasn’t easy, taking care of five younger sisters. But Mrs. Rogers had taught them to care for the living, and Bucky’s Ma had shown him how to tend to the ghosts.


End file.
